‘You must get a house with a good loan on it,’ I was told and found all this advice difficult to comprehend until it was made clear that when we came to sell, no American would be keen on a home without a substantial loan in place. No-one buys for cash so everyone needs a loan. I only just made sense of it all but needed to get on with actually locating somewhere to live.
Then we found a home with a swimming pool and a jacuzzi. As soon as Andy saw it, I knew that it would be ours! It was the best option at the right price anyway with, of course, ‘a good loan’. I knew George would love it, which was just as well as I was going to have to buy this home in Mission Viejo without him having a sight of it.
I set things in motion and the following day, set off for the airport to fetch John, Joanna, Josh and six-month-old Maxim.
We spent the night at the motel, showed the family the house the next morning and then started for Nevada. Once off California highways, John took over the driving. None of us was sure if his UK licence was legal in the ‘Sunshine State’ but knew that Nevada would be relaxed about this as with everything else.
Back at Walker Lake, the family settled down to enjoy the sun, the water, the space and relaxed life style. John took to water-skiing immediately and the youngsters liked paddling about at the edge of the lake.
Among the various excursions was a trip to Bodie, a ghost town which had thrived during the gold rush and had now been preserved in a semi-derelict state for the benefit of tourists. Josh, old enough at three, to enjoy everything, including Disneyland and Magic Mountain later in California, talked interminably about Bodie for years, whilst scarcely mentioning the more exciting amusement parks. Now, thirty years later, with a family of his own, he loves remote areas, old things and historic places. So perhaps his young fascination for Bodie is not so surprising after all.
We were in the apartment one afternoon. Joanna was knitting, the boys were playing on the floor, John was snoozing and Andy was sketching. All was quiet and peaceful. Suddenly all the cups and saucers on the dresser (hutch) started to rattle, knives and forks on the table, laid for dinner, danced on the shiny surface while the chairs on which we sat took on a life of their own.
Joanna looked a question with a scared gasp.
In unison, Andy and I said, ‘It’s only an earthquake.’
How stupid that seems as I write it. Indeed, after a momentary disbelieving gaze in our direction, John and Joanna began to laugh. With relief, perhaps? We had become so accustomed to earth tremors that we just did not bother about them. One could not do anything or take cover anyway: there was never any time and no warning, so all the advice so confidently broadcast was of little use.
There is a huge fault at the meeting of two tectonic plates. It runs through California and Nevada and when these two monsters meet and one grinds over the top of the other, earthquakes large and small can happen. Disasters are not rare but everyone has to live with that threat so they live as though it were just not there. It was amazing to see how folk simply ignored this sword of Damocles hanging over them.
The next morning, George happened to be the first in at the Army Munitions Plant. He entered the building where all the computers were housed and had begun to settle at his desk when he heard a rattling sound. At first, he took no notice, thinking it was the wind blowing some papers around. Then he realised what it might be. A rattlesnake!
With the hairs on his neck prickling, he looked behind his chair. There, not six feet away, with its head raised threateningly, was a sizeable rattlesnake which did not appear to be pleased with life. Perhaps the earthquake of the day before had disturbed him and he was prepared to vent his displeasure upon the first piece of flesh that presented itself. George beat a hasty retreat and waited outside until one of the local engineers arrived.
‘Hi. What’s with you, then?’ The engineer noticed George’s tense expression.
Cocking a thumb, George said, ‘In there. Snake.’
‘Ah! Rattler, is it?’
He picked up a stick, grabbed a sack and edged gingerly through the door. With expertise probably born of long experience, he ‘hooked’ the snake and dropped him neatly into the bag. He strode off into the desert for some distance and let the creature go.
Nervously, George said, ‘Won’t it come back in?’
‘Might do. Poor little sod’s frightened by the quake, I guess.’ And with this less than comforting opinion, that burly individual nonchalantly ambled off to start work.
The same afternoon, Babs (of baby fame) came panting up the staircase. (She was not built for rushing about.) Catching her breath, she told us of her adventure earlier in the day. She had been to help the Pastor in the church and when he was driving her home, she felt a movement in her rather tight jeans. She discreetly felt around and could tell by the slight lump on her thigh that it was a scorpion. A scorpion! What a predicament! If she did not remove it at once, she would be stung, but to do so meant removing her jeans very carefully and completely, in a car with the Pastor of her church? Dare she wait? It would take only five minutes to get home. Then it moved again!
Babs screamed and the Pastor nearly drove off the road.
‘Scorpion in my jeans,’ she gasped.
‘What? Oh, umm. Ahh.’ The Pastor might have been used to delivering long sermons, but he was certainly lost for words now.
‘Yes. I’ll pull over then you can umm… yes.’
So beside the road in full view, with the Pastor politely looking the other way, Babs had to remove her jeans altogether, rolling the scorpion in them as she rolled them down her legs. Then she jumped on the folded garment to kill the intruder. So there was Babs, a well-endowed woman, clad only in pants and bra, leaping up and down beside the road for what appeared to be no reason at all to a passing truck driver. This escapade earned her several appreciative blasts on his dual horns. She was breathless with laughter as she told us that the Pastor was more embarrassed than she was.
Just before we left Nevada, George obtained permission to show Andy round the Army Munitions Plant. We teased George about ‘Going off to explode his bombs’, but he was actually writing the programmes for the computers which were to control the robots that were doing the work. A building had been cleverly designed in a cross, the outer ‘wings’ made of very flimsy materials while the central ‘pod’, where the men worked, had walls of concrete three feet thick. The four outer areas contained the mortars and shells and the robots which were being programmed to empty the devices of the explosive, but if something went wrong and the ‘bomb’ exploded, the blast would destroy only the outer wing with the blast going outwards to be dissipated in the open desert while the men were safe in the heavily protected ‘pod’. Andy was most impressed by such technology. I’m sure it would now be considered outdated.
So one early morning, we set off for California with everyone crammed into the car and all the luggage in the boat on the trailer. We were all going to stay in a rented apartment while the Escrow (solicitors? property agents?) people finalised the purchase of our house. While there, we maintained the holiday spirit by visiting all the tourist attractions such as the theme and amusement parks. Everyone bathed in the blue Pacific and we had a trip to San Diego for some excellent boating. Finally, we waved John and Joanna off at LAX. It was a pity that they had to go before we moved in to the house.
Andy began school. Predictably the buildings were almost lavish and the campus extensive. The school, the scholars, the timetable and the curriculum were all so different that he was quite daunted and confused for a while and not at all happy during the first semester. Home, however with its swimming pool and jacuzzi were a great success and he did not lack for friends as everyone found his accent – part English, part Scottish – most attractive – especially the girls who said that they ‘luuuurved’ it.
I found that it was not easy to exercise our ‘canines’ as rough open ground was some way off but, at weekends, if not boating, we walked in the ‘wilderness’ – the are
a behind the Coastal Plain and towards the San Gabriel mountains. We attached bells to the dogs’ collars to frighten snakes away.
Surprisingly, Nick had married at about eighteen and now came for a holiday with his wife and one-year-old daughter, Natasha. Nick was fascinated by the sheer size of everything – especially the cars. Smaller Japanese built cars were only just appearing on the market and many Americans found it difficult to relinquish the feeling of space and safety that a big car delivered. George had another Ford (a Fairmont) but my huge Ford Squire was the family car and Nick’s firm favourite, although it was deemed to look like a ‘wardrobe on wheels’.
The nearest lake for water-skiing was Lake Elsinore – a strange body of water about eight miles long which was inclined to overflow one year, flooding the surrounding homes and almost dry up the next. At least it didn’t ‘turn over’! Nick was quick to learn and we spent happy times at Elsinore. I often wondered if it had been given its romantic name by a Dane or perhaps a Shakespeare enthusiast, but was never able to find out.
One afternoon, Nick was playing with Natasha, who could not quite walk and so grabbed the furniture for support. Suddenly, just as she reached for the small television on a side table, everything started to rattle and shake and Nick only just caught the TV as it slid towards the child. The water in the swimming pool was washing from side to side, spilling over the edges and onto the patio and there was a roaring sound. I have always been amazed that so few reports of earthquakes mention the noise. I have now been in a few minor ’quakes and I am well aware of the noise but I have never understood what causes it. Nick had hoped that there would be an earthquake during his visit – he was not disappointed!
George found that, far from working nearby, he was expected to go to all manner of places, some in other states – Texas, Michigan and others. I was amused to know that there really was a town called Kallamazoo. I had only heard the name in connection with a song about a cat called Kalamazoo.
At about this time, I started to think about a nursing post but only got as far as consulting the paper and noting the whereabouts of hospitals when Elizabeth and Paul arrived for a holiday with us. George had some accumulated time off and it was the end of a semester at Andy’s school so we bought a large tent, a portable barbeque, loaded the boat (on its trailer) with all this camping equipment and personal belongings and set off, dogs as well, for a trip to Yosemite National Park.
On the way, we needed to stay in what is called a ‘primitive’ camp site at Bass Lake, a beautiful, wooded spot in the hills about three thousand feet above sea level. Here, one washed in the lake, but with special environmentally friendly soap (purchased for a vastly inflated price at a nearby ‘store’). The toilet arrangements were as bad as anything that I had encountered in Papavray, amounting to a smelly wooden hut containing a chemical loo.
By this time, I was well aware that Black Widow spiders are partial to sitting in loos because they like moisture! Elizabeth and I envied the men who did not need to get too near the loo to relieve their bladders and, already standing, were well placed for a hasty retreat should one of these beasties appear. We on the other hand…! We decided to tramp off deep into the woods, trusting the back of a tree rather than the wooden hut.
We carried on to Yosemite. What a fantastic area it is! Wild and empty, with high mountains, deep valleys and wonderful view points. There were not many visitors as the weather was cool by Californian standards and at over ten thousand feet there was a chance of snow. In the winter months, the Park is closed to visitors, most of the roads being impassable.
At one of the view points, I stood alone for a moment, and savoured the eerie feeling of looking into the past. The flat bottomed valley far below was green with trees and a gentle river which flowed through on its meandering course, all surrounded and protected by the sheer sides of two thousand feet high rocks rising straight from the lush green fields. A tribe of Indians had lived in this valley hundreds of years ago, safe from other marauding tribes, pitching their tents and lighting their fires, watching the smoke gather between the high pinnacles, or hang in the tree tops and finally drift away on the breeze. They had left behind an indefinable atmosphere: an old atmosphere, full of history and legend. It is thought that ‘Yosemite’ is named after that tribe – ‘Yo-se-mat-ey’. I felt a part of the ancient scene as I used to do in the Hebrides when watching the sea or the clouds drifting through the mountains. A moment of nostalgia overcame me and I wanted to capture and keep it. But family and dogs claimed me and we drove off to find a camp site.
We set off early the next day and were rewarded by seeing a young bear crossing the road just a few feet in front of the car. He stopped in surprise, scrutinised us for a moment, and then carried on. He was probably used to having the road to himself at that time of the day.
We were making for Lake Tahoe and intended to camp there for about a week. The sites there proved to be well organised with quite large, private areas for each ‘rig’ whether it was a car and tent like ours or one of the many enormous RVs. There were wooden seats, a barbeque and a fire pit with a supply of wood, replenished daily. There was good hot water in the shower blocks and slip ways for launching boats. This was camping Californian style!
The surface of the lake was at six thousand two hundred feet above sea level and the rim a little more. At first, I felt the slight breathlessness that the thin air causes but soon became used to it. No one else seemed to notice it at all. Maybe they were too intent on enjoying themselves. Even with our high altitude propellers, the engine took a while to reach a good speed for skiing. The water was quite cold as it was composed of snow water from the surrounding mountains but this seemed not to deter anyone and the holiday was filled with laughter.
Andy eventually settled into his school, but was much more interested in the outdoor life, sport, physical activities in general and a new love – karate. He had joined a karate studio and seemed to have a natural ability. He started, as everyone does, as a white belt but quickly passed through the various colours until he eventually reached the coveted black belt status. On the way he became the first student in the studio to win a trophy and this was to be followed by many more huge ornate affairs that festooned his room. When, in later years, he attended a boarding school in England, his prowess at karate was a great attribute and ego booster as the Californian teaching had left large gaps in his education which meant that he was far behind others of his age. But at least he was able to entertain the staff and pupils alike, giving exhibitions and earning points for his house. The American way of teaching seemed very fragmented and inadequate compared with the strict regime of an English public school.
Continuing my quest for work, I was horrified to find that UK nurse training to State qualification was not recognised in California so I would not be able to work as a trained nurse. I was told that I could retrain under Californian mandate, but that would take three years. George’s contract might be finished by then. It was an unexpected dilemma and a huge setback. While in Nevada with its relaxed way of life, I had been happy to be unemployed, knowing that we would not be there for very long. But now, I was ready to be useful again. This state if limbo continued with no resolution for some months and then disaster struck.
37
The End of an Era
THE COMPANY FOR whom George was working had gone bankrupt!
There had been no warning, no hint that anything was wrong but when George arrived at the office this particular morning, he was confronted by the managing director and his assistant.
‘Sittee down,’ he was instructed.
‘I’m done! Finished.’ The dramatic announcement was lost on George for a moment.
‘I have overdeveloped, overspent, taken on work that did not pay… Oh! Just everything.’
Then George realised what Harry meant. And what it meant to us, as a family. Suddenly, here we were in a foreign country, with no work and therefore no visa. The regulations applying to ‘aliens’ workin
g in the US meant that if such a person had no employer (as from this minute, in George’s case) he had no right to a visa and if he had no visa, he was unlikely to get work. Very much a ‘catch-22’ situation.
George had been employed by the company before we came to the States so arrived with a visa and a job in place. That visa did not cover me, as his wife, for work – I would have had to apply separately but now there would be no chance at all as the main breadwinner now had no employment.
George came home early to break the devastating news. He was pale and worried.
‘What are we to do? I have a month’s salary to come. They assured me that it is safe. But after that…?
We had two cars, two boats (we had brought a sailing dingy from the UK) and a home loan (mortgage). Andy had been in school now for about a year and felt settled. He was not a good pupil but had made many friends. We, too, had met neighbours, enjoyed barbeques with them and got to know two of George’s work colleagues quite well.
All this – everything in our lives – was suddenly in jeopardy!
‘We will have to sell up and go back to the UK,’ muttered George morosely. He enjoyed the Californian lifestyle, his job and the weather. I loved the weather and our home with its swimming pool and the feeling of space. The materialistic approach to life was not quite so much to my liking, but I had thought that I would get used to it, perhaps even embrace it.
‘I suppose I will get work there,’ George continued without enthusiasm and I remembered that he had not truly worked in the UK for years as he had always been off on contracts abroad for this, as of today, defunct company.
We had sold our home on Papavray. To leave a house empty and unheated in the damp atmosphere of the islands, perhaps for years, had not seemed a sensible option. My job had been filled in a different way in the changing world of the NHS. More than a few of my old patients were now dead, or ‘passed on’ or ‘passed over’ as the islanders would say and the island itself was changing. For the better, I felt, as galleries and cafes started up and the planning rules were relaxed, allowing croft owners to build one extra house on their land. At last the population drain was halted. I felt nostalgic about the island and its inhabitants, but now I was no longer a part of it. My life had moved on.
More Tales From the Island Nurse Page 29
